Under the Lighthouse
by cardassianvole
Summary: Scully goes away to find herself but learns you can't run away from your past.


Under The Lighthouse (Wishful Thinking)  
  
  
  
Down here under the lighthouse  
  
Upstairs, I see for miles  
  
Keep my name under the white out  
  
Just let me miss you all the while  
  
  
  
Spring 2003  
  
Somewhere in Northeastern Massachusetts  
  
10:23 am  
  
  
  
The waves crash against the shore.  
  
Spray blows up from the waves and into my face.  
  
My hair ruffles and I brush it out of my eyes.  
  
The sun is just assuming it's mid-day position over the horizon; seagulls began to squawk and beachgoers (although there really aren't any this time of year) are just arriving on the beach.  
  
Through this window, however, there is nothing.  
  
The salty air cuts through my clothes like a knife.  
  
Nothing matters. Not the waves, not the spray, not my hair-certainly not my life. Not anymore.  
  
Oh, it used to mean something, all right. Life used to be something to Dana Scully. There was a purpose once upon a time.  
  
No more.  
  
Gone.  
  
The squeaking of the hinges on the door tells me that I am not alone. I turn to find my soul survivor standing in the corner with a small envelope in her hand.  
  
I don't know it at this time-but that small envelope carried  
  
by my aunt Anne-Marie holds both my past and my future inside of it.  
  
The letter holds the Truth.  
  
"Dana, you have a letter," Anne-Marie begins softly. "There's no return address. I...I thought you might want to have a look at it."  
  
Anne-Marie hands me the small envelope and smiles sadly. "I hope this helps you find your way, Dana."  
  
She is gone as well now. I can hear her footsteps pattering against the spiral staircase and into the main room of the lighthouse. I turn my attention to the letter.  
  
It isn't anything special, by normal standards: it is a small envelope, addressed to one Miss Dana Scully of Hertfordshire, Massachusetts. There is no return address, like Anne-Marie has mentioned; there is a postmark. Arlington, the postmark reads.  
  
I know someone in Arlington.  
  
My stomach lurches.  
  
I don't want a letter from someone in Arlington.  
  
My mind begins to race; as much as it can in my weakened state. I contemplate throwing the letter out the accessible window of the lighthouse; I consider burning it; I know I can just close my eyes and place it in the trash can downstairs; no one will ever notice it's there.  
  
My curiosity and an overwhelming sense of guilt wash through me causing me to scrap those plans and slowly, deliberately tear the envelope open.  
  
Three sheets of lined, neatly printed-on notebook paper fall out of the envelope. There are no objects; no pictures; nothing typically Mulder that I can see.  
  
Mulder.  
  
Just thinking his name is making me queasy.  
  
I take a deep breath. Stealing one last glance at the ocean and the brightening horizon, I carefully unfold the pieces of paper and begin to read.  
  
  
  
To Scully:  
  
It has been a long time, I know. And because of this, a letter is nearing the absurd level. There is something rather silly about writing something casual to someone whom you had a massive falling-out with years ago. Or maybe it was a shorter amount of time than  
  
that. Time has become inconsequential to me as of late.  
  
You may be curious as to the reason of this letter; you may also be curious as to how I have managed to locate your address. You will receive the answers to both of those questions, and more. Skinner gave me your address. Lord knows how he received it...your mother, maybe. I think Skinner knew how desperate my situation was, Scully.  
  
Citronella has been diagnosed with terminal cancer, Scully. The doctors told me it's an inoperable brain tumor; she has three months to a year left in her. There is nothing they can do in the way of treatment; they suggested to me that I make her as comfortable as  
  
possible so she can rest out her remaining days in peace and comfort. I don't know what to do, quite frankly. I'm frightened to death and I don't want her to die, Scully! When you had cancer, I had never felt so helpless in my life. There was nothing worse than that feeling.  
  
Until now.  
  
What I am trying to say here, Scully, is that I need your help. I need you. I don't know if you'll believe me on this one, but life hasn't been the same here since you've been gone. I miss your presence in my life more than I think you know. You were always able to help me through my pain like no one else could...and that is the main objective of my letter.  
  
Scully, I know this may be a lot to ask from you...but could you find it in your heart to come back to DC and help me out? I...I don't know if I can get through this pain without you, Scully. Citronella is a strong girl, and I love her very much...but without her, I don't have a strong emotional anchor. I need you here to be there for me...like you have been  
  
there for me in the past.  
  
I know it's a lot to ask, Scully, but I really need you and I don't know what to do otherwise. Life without Citronella is going to be difficult enough...but having to live through the pain without you would be, I am afraid, too much for one person to bear.  
  
Please find it in your heart to help me.  
  
Sincerely, and from the bottom of my being,  
  
Fox Mulder.  
  
  
  
The lined pieces of notebook paper softly flutter to the floor.  
  
My gaze returns, stunned, to the shore and the horizon. It is now mid-day. The joyous screams of playing children nearly overwhelm the sound of the waves pounding against the shore, but not quite. I can hear the sound of my heart beating louder than any of these sounds.  
  
He wants me to go back?  
  
How can he want me to go back?  
  
For a moment, I actually contemplate his idea. Going to DC to see Mulder. Going to DC to help him with his grief. Citronella is dying. Citronella will be no more.  
  
Citronella, sadly enough, is what has driven me from DC in the first place. And now her pending absence is driving me back?  
  
The thought of complying with this request of Mulder's is gone nearly as soon as it arrives. There is no way that I can go back; not now. I will jump out the lighthouse window before I return to Mulder, I decide.  
  
An idea which, I smile sadly, is sounding more and more appealing with each passing day.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Spring 2005  
  
Hertfordshire, MA  
  
1:23 pm  
  
  
  
I walk through the art gallery, surveying today's business.  
  
Not bad, not bad. I smile with pride as another group of customers enter the store. I know them well. I know everyone well.  
  
"Dana, good afternoon," they greet me. I smile in return.  
  
"Good afternoon, Becky," I say to the mother. Her children are with her today. I wonder why; it is Tuesday and her children are nearing their teenage years. I shake my head  
  
to cease worrying. This is fruitless. "How are you today?"  
  
She smiles and entwines both of her hands with her childrens'.  
  
"The kids and I are taking a mother-child day off from work and school. They insisted on coming to the gallery to see you; and Emily insisted we check for new paintings." Becky's voice becomes soft and she leans in closer to me. "She wants to be you when she grows up, you know."  
  
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. "This is all very flattering, Beck, and I do have a few new paintings...there is another book of poems, Emily, if you'd like to see them. I've  
  
just gotten the stock in today, and you'd be the first one to see them. You interested?"  
  
The little girl grins and nods fervently. I walk into the stock room and retrieve the book for her.  
  
Fifty minutes and $200 later, they are gone and I am closing shop early today. The day is warm and sunny; I plan on going home to the lighthouse and writing poetry on the shoreline. My muse has been in overdrive as of late; my heart burning with a desire to  
  
create things.  
  
I walk the two miles to the lighthouse in relative silence; the occasional townsperson will walk through my path and query as to my health; my well- being. I answer congenially, assure them of my being fine, and continue on to the house.  
  
When I arrive, Anne-Marie is sitting in the living room, reading a magazine. I greet her with a smile and a nod, and begin to climb the spiral staircase-a painting idea is forming in my head when-  
  
"Dana, honey, something came in the mail for you today."  
  
I stop. Turning slowly, I retrace my steps back down the stairs and stare at my aunt. There is a feeling in the pit of my stomach that I am having trouble placing.  
  
"Oh really?" I comment nonchalantly, attempting to squash the nausea forming in my lower abdomen. Anne-Marie sees right through me. "Who is it from?" I ask apprehensively.  
  
She stands and brings me a small envelope. My stomach sinks. I know who it is from. She doesn't have to tell me. I don't wait for her answer. Instead, I turn from her, attempting to control my breathing, and race clumsily up the spiral staircase.  
  
I slam the door behind me and sink to the floor, leaning against it.  
  
This is not good.  
  
I am rid of him. He is no longer a part of my life. He isn't. Dana, get a hold of yourself. You are no longer that woman. He isn't a part of this life you are living now. My thoughts are racing as I pray for an excuse to ignore this letter.  
  
1 But he *is* part of your life now, Dana  
  
My brain is not working for me. It is telling me what I do not want to hear and it is not stopping. It is not making me feel better; it is giving me more and more reasons why this letter should not be ignored.  
  
2 You wouldn't paint or write if not for Mulder, Dana  
  
I ram my head into the wall to rid it of these thoughts; all it does is give me a headache and another reason to begin sobbing. With a new burst of anger, I tear the envelope open and unfold the crisp, lined paper now synonymous with Mulder.  
  
The words I read are as follows:  
  
  
  
To Scully:  
  
It has been two years since our last communication. I am not at all sure that you received my last letter, because you neither replied in writing nor in person, as I had literally begged you to do. I should have known better than to assume you would back down so easily.  
  
This letter unfortunately brings more bad news. Citronella, although outliving her doctor's expectations, passed on six months ago. It was a relatively quiet death-it took place at home, with friends and family surrounding her. She died at peace, at least; which is more than I can now say for myself.  
  
It is difficult to describe to you the feeling of experiencing the death of your spouse, the death of yourself, and the consequential death of your only hope for recovery at the same time. While it isn't something I would in any way recommend, it has made me a different person. For one, I have given up on close personal relationships. I am through. I have  
  
Lost my sister; I have lost Citronella; I have lost you. I recently discovered through an autopsy that Citronella was pregnant at the time of her death. Not only have I lost a wife, but also my only link to her; an unborn child.  
  
The amount of pain these events have caused me in the past two years is indescribable to even you. I am hurt, above all else, that you do not seem to care about my welfare and my being any longer. Although, from the way you left so suddenly without so much as a goodbye and good luck with your marriage, Mulder, I shouldn't be surprised. But it still  
  
hurts, Scully. It still hurts to know that you are reading this with an indifferent soul and a cold heart. I wish you could feel for me what I still feel for you.  
  
There is much that I want to tell you. Much that cannot be summed up or expressed in the space of a hand-written letter. However, I do realize the chances of ever seeing you again are quite slim. I want you to know that I will never give up hope.  
  
I wish you the best of luck in whatever you are doing right now.  
  
Best Wishes,  
  
Fox Mulder.  
  
  
  
I breathe deeply to keep my emotions from getting the better of me. I cannot let this affect me. I must paint. Now. I let go of the letter and walk to my canvas in the corner; quickly mixing paints, I begin to vent my emotions with color. This is the way I express myself.  
  
I do this often, but not as charged as this.  
  
I faintly hear the phone ringing down in the living room. Anne-Marie picks it up and it is quickly forgotten as I absorb myself in my art. I hear nothing; I see nothing; I feel everything. My heart is to burst any second, I am sure of it; and the pulsating throbbing of built-up tears burn in my ears and through to my eyes. I am breathing erratically; my hands shake and I sink to my knees in front of the canvas.  
  
I sense that I am not alone.  
  
The mood is broken. I wipe sweat from my brow and turn toward the doorway. Anne-Marie is standing in it, staring at me, surveying my work-in- progress. There is something else on her mind than my art. I feel it in the air.  
  
"What is it, Anne-Marie?" I ask her, astonished at the strength of my voice.  
  
For the first time since my conception, I see tears in her eyes. My heart skips a beat and I swallow hard. My mind begins racing once again. What is happening? I ask her exactly this.  
  
She clears her throat before attempting to speak.  
  
"Dana, your mother has had an accident."  
  
My heart is stopping. I am feeling the beating cease. Dizziness overcomes me and I reach out instinctively for something to hold on to. My hand finds the edge of my canvas; I fuse my hand to it and manage to stay upright.  
  
Finally, I am finding my voice. "Is she...all right?"  
  
"She had a fall today, Dana. Her hip has been replaced. She is home, but unable to walk or get around on her own." Slight pause. I know what is  
  
coming and I dread it like one dreads the plague. I close my eyes and prepare  
  
myself to handle the next words I am sure will be out of her mouth. I am right in my assumption. Anne-Marie clears her throat once again. "You need to go home to Washington, Dana. Your mother needs you."  
  
I am spiraling downward. Down, down, down...into the abyss from which no one  
  
ever returns. I am this abyss; my world spirals counter-clockwise down the drain of sanity and I am at the helm.  
  
The clock strikes again and this time I am frightened.  
  
  
  
  
  
Spring 2005  
  
Arlington, VA  
  
2:56 pm  
  
  
  
I walk through rows of people waiting for buses and trains and numerous other forms of transportation unseen by myself in over three years. I am finding myself confined by this city.  
  
My mother is doing well. I am only to be in Arlington for another week. For this I am exceedingly grateful. My mouth is cottony dry, my eyes sunken and hollow; my hands clammy and cold. I am different.  
  
I am entered for the art show, I remind myself. This is your purpose here. I am to paint the river from the park. I am to find solitude and work my feelings out at the park and paint. And write. There is nothing that is going to make me feel good at this point other than my art. Nothing.  
  
I am at the park in Arlington now. The very park which holds memories of a past now gone forever. The pain nearly overwhelms me as I walk around, searching for the perfect spot to sit down and paint. I choose a spot on the ground, near the waterfront. I am to sit and paint here; serenity. I am painting serenity.  
  
I am painting serenity, and quite well, as I breathe deeply and stare at my work-in-progress. Light is pouring over my canvas and I twist my head to stretch my muscles. They are stretching. And I am suddenly seeing him.  
  
I am seeing him, to my right: sitting on our bench. He is staring at the water. I am unable to process thoughts. I am having trouble coming up with ways to escape my situation. Blank in the mind and terrified in the heart, I am resigning to hiding behind my canvas. I am not caring what my painting looks like with my hair getting in it; I am not caring what my hair is looking like with paint in it. I am concerning myself with not getting noticed by my pain personified. Pain Personified, sitting on a bench I am remembering sitting on with him long ago, staring at the water. I am watching him think.  
  
I am thinking that he is thinking about me.  
  
My heart rate begins to slow; life slowly returns to normal; the world continues moving at a reasonable pace. The small waves wash pebble after pebble up onto the shore. I am feeling like one of those pebbles.  
  
"Is that...is that...you?"  
  
Frozen.  
  
I am frozen. Frozen solid, against the cliffs of insanity, waiting to either roll off the edge or wake up. Finding myself doing neither, I shift my eyes from the river to the familiar male voice above me.  
  
I am face to face with him. The word tumbles and falls; the stars are all falling out of the sky and it is all the fault of Fox William Mulder. I am not sure what I am going to do. I am not sure what I am currently doing. Gawking? Is gawking a proper term? I cannot think to process this. My brain shuts down and I cease to function. My heart pounding in my eardrums. This is all that I am hearing as Mulder and I continue to stare at each other.  
  
"I don't believe it's you, Scully."  
  
I am still unable to speak. I think I am trying; nothing is coming out. It's like a surreal dream from when I am thirteen, trying to make a speech in front of the class and only producing squeaks from my voice box instead. This is a similar feat I am achieving; this time, squawks will be miraculous.  
  
Mulder is now sitting down. I am trying to remember when he did this. I am finding that I cannot recall the specific moment. Or any specific moment, for that matter. I am not recalling much of anything. I am still silent.  
  
"Can you talk, Scully?" he is asking me, half-jokingly.  
  
I struggle to find my voice. It is not working. I struggle more. I find it.  
  
"Mulder..." is all I am able to say before lapsing back into my trauma- induced autistic state. I am clearing my throat, I am praying to God, and I am feeling the tremendous urge to get up and run away. But for some reason, I am not. I am feeling the urge to talk to him. I am not sure why.  
  
"Come on, Scully..." Mulder's hazel eyes are urging me on.  
  
I find that I miss having someone call me Scully.  
  
"I miss having someone call me Scully," I tell him.  
  
Goddamn it. I cannot believe what I am hearing coming out of my mouth.  
  
This is not the articulate scientist that used to be. I am not sure who I am anymore. I am not sure at all who I am becoming. I am scared.  
  
Mulder smiles at me and floods of feelings are suddenly remembered and are rushing back to me like a dam is breaking in the back of my mind and my conscious is a stick figure standing right in the pathway.  
  
As Mulder and I begin a conversation-our first in over three years-I am realizing just how much both of us have changed. There is something about Mulder that was never there before. I try to figure out what it is and am having trouble specifying. He is calmer; more serene; but there is a deep pain reflected in his eyes. I am noticing how much more  
  
pronounced this pain is than the last time I have seen him. I wonder if I am partly to blame for this change and I suddenly have the flash that he is wondering the same thing about me. For I know I am also different. I am not the same person, the same Dana Scully that he is used to. I really cannot be more different. I am noticing more: we are  
  
not compatible in these states. We really are not. This saddens me despite my brain telling me that it is for the best and I am finding myself more confused than ever. Mulder senses this and pulls back to look at me.  
  
He is reading my mind. I can feel it.  
  
"I know we're different people, Scully."  
  
I stop being silently hysterical for a moment and look at him. He is still reading me like a book. He is still seeing right through me. I might as well be emotionally naked, because that is the way Mulder is seeing me right now.  
  
"But I am willing to work it out. Slowly...however slowly we need to go. I am willing to do it. But you need to let me, Scully. And you have to want it as well. I don't want to be selfish anymore. I've spent way too many years being selfish, and I'm not going to do that to you anymore."  
  
I find myself once again contemplating a momentous decision which could very well change the rest of my life *again*.  
  
This time, for no particular reason, I decide to take the chance.  
  
"I am willing."  
  
He seems taken aback and I find myself worrying that he might be backing out. I mentally slap myself for even thinking this thought and turn my full attention back to him.  
  
"You...are?"  
  
I nod, and he smiles. Mulder smiles at me. And it is not a smile of relief, or a smile through pain...it is a smile of joy. Pure unadulterated joy. Knowing I am the cause of this joy is giving me a natural high. I feel like having fun for the first time in years. I am  
  
happy as well.  
  
"Can I take you somewhere?"  
  
I am standing now; my dizziness is replaced by another feeling, and I am swept up in the sun, the city, and the feeling of being more complete than ever before. Mulder leads me across the park and I breathe the city air. I am not caring what it is going to do to my lungs or what consequences I might face back in Massachusetts. I am not caring about  
  
anything. This is what I want. I am not quite sure why, but I have a feeling I am going to find out.  
  
Before we drive, I walk to the waterfront and pick up a pebble. It is warm and soft in my hand; I squeeze it gently and smile into the sun. I am done being beaten by the waves; I am done being drowned in the surf. At this moment, walking to Mulder's car in the middle of Arlington, Virginia, with my mother in a wheelchair and my canvas still sitting  
  
next to a bench in the middle of a park, I am vowing to never be a pebble stuck in the mud again.  
  
My pebble skims along the surface of the placid river and sinks slowly, slowly...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Summer 2005  
  
Somewhere on the coast of Massachusetts  
  
7:33 pm  
  
  
  
I am walking along the beach.  
  
The wind is blowing my hair, whipping it across my face, and I revel in the sand between my toes and the sun hitting my freckled, tan face. I smile through my reverie and open my eyes, staring out at the ocean. I am captivated by the beauty of the Atlantic Ocean; I see fishermen in the distance, I see life teeming in the waters; I see every emotion ever  
  
felt riding along the waves and washing up on the shore; I see hope on the horizon, and I silently thank the sun for rising and am wishing it well as it sets.  
  
My dress is long and white. I am wearing something light. It is warm out. I feel lighter than usual this evening; my world is seeming to get brighter every day.  
  
I am writing letters.  
  
Glorious, long letters, I am writing them. And he is writing them back. Long letters from him as well-long, wonderful, sweet, beautiful letters where we bared our souls on paper and sent them first-class every morning. A letter is a wonderful present; I am becoming quite gifted at writing them. They make me happy and I know they are making  
  
him happy as well. This is my objective.  
  
I am eating with Anne-Marie tonight; we are ordering salmon for dinner. We are having more fun these days. She notices a change in me and often comments on it. "Dana, you're glowing!" is a favorite phrase that she is picking up from somewhere. I agree with her. I am falling in love again.  
  
My cell phone rings in the middle of dinner. I open it. I only recently purchased a new phone. Technology is passing me by more quickly than I am catching up to it. I am in for a treat-my caller is Mulder.  
  
"I'm visiting you tomorrow" he tells me.  
  
I am ecstatic. My heart skips a beat and I am screaming in the middle of the restaurant. I don't care. Anne-Marie isn't caring, and Mulder could care less. I cannot wait. We hang up, and Anne-Marie and I celebrate with non-fat tofutti rice dreamcicles for dessert. We are big fans of dessert, I muse.  
  
Mulder is arriving tomorrow.  
  
  
  
The waves break on the shore; the sun sets; the world sleeps.  
  
  
  
  
  
Summer 2005  
  
A Rowboat off the Coast of Massachusetts  
  
1:33 pm  
  
  
  
The oars are making a peaceful, tranquil sound as Mulder and I glide along the water in my rowboat for lunch. We are enjoying being with each other, all aukwardness aside. It is strange, admittedly, being in my environment and being with Mulder at the same time. And yet I find myself enjoying it. I see Mulder staring at the lighthouse as he is taking a bite of his sandwich. I am smiling as I take his hand and look towards the lighthouse.  
  
"You like?"  
  
He nods, and sighs deeply. "It's beautiful, Scully. I had no idea...about anything, really. I had no idea that this is who you really are."  
  
I smile and think back. "I had no idea either, Mulder. I went with whatever happened and came along, and this is what happened to occur." I am still a bit reclusive when it comes to social events; this is an ongoing problem. But Mulder is making me shimmer and shine like never before. I am radiant when he is around. He is making me whole.  
  
He begins speaking first. "We've known each other twelve years, you know that, Scully? Twelve years."  
  
I think and am astonished to find that he is right. "It doesn't seem like it."  
  
He takes my hands in his and looks out at the sun and the horizon. "It's been a very long road, Scully, wouldn't you say?"  
  
I am not going to say anything. I merely nod and he continues.  
  
"I want to try it again, Scully." He is sighing deeply and I am wondering what else he is trying to tell me. "I want you to know how deeply sorry I am for hurting you so badly all of those years."  
  
I am now crying. I can't control it and am feeling like a big baby, sobbing in front of him. I am emotionally out of control. "I'm..." I am searching for the words I need. "I shouldn't have run away from my problems," I am stammering. "I caused more by attempting to end them. And I am sorry also."  
  
Mulder is holding me now. I am holding him back. I feel warmth and love radiating from him; I am hoping like Hell that he is feeling it back.  
  
Only when he pulls back from me and looks straight into my eyes am I sure that he is. Mulder's eyes are telling me the secrets of the universe; I am seeing into his soul and he is seeing right back into mine. We are staring into each other and when he decides to do  
  
something, I am instantly aware of it. Slowly, deliberately, Mulder is leaning in to me. Hesitantly, his lips graze mine, once, twice...I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him to me for something more passionate. When we break apart, I see tears in his eyes. The wind is blowing his hair, the waves are rocking the boat, and somewhere I swear I am hearing someone assuring me that this is right.  
  
"I will never leave you again," Mulder whispers in my ear.  
  
"I will never again let you down," I whisper in return.  
  
We sit sobbing in each others' arms and I feel the last piece of the puzzle click into place. The sun burns upon us; the birds squawk around us; the waves pound, the pebbles wash up on shore and are enduring an everlasting beating.  
  
And the waves never stop their endless journey across the sea to meet them.  
  
  
  
Copyright April 7, 1999. 


End file.
